When Miss Sybbie Catches Mrs Hughes Kissing Father Christmas
by olehistorian
Summary: It is Christmas Eve 1924 and Miss Sybbie catches Mrs. Hughes smooching Father Christmas in front of the Christmas tree.


Pure, unapologetic Chelsie, Christmas fluff….

She has tired of the festivities in the servants' hall. Of the loudness, the boisterousness. She doesn't begrudge the youngsters and until a few years ago enjoyed a bit of celebration herself. But, Mrs. Patmore has retired off to the kitchen to tidy up loose ends for tomorrow and Mr. Carson has gone to change. Two days ago, he and Mrs. Hughes trudged up to the attics, found the dusty trunk, and opened it to find the costume. Mrs. Hughes mended the frayed edges and the laundry maids made sure that it was cleaned and pressed. Lady Mary and Lady Edith have asked him to play Father Christmas, to disperse packages around the tree. They _hope_ that the youngsters _might happen_ upon the scene just as they did once many years ago.

Mrs. Hughes looks into his pantry. It is quiet, a lone lamp burning on his desk and his jacket hanging across the back his chair. She walks into his room, can sense him there. Wonders if, when they retire, his presence will still be as palpable for Thomas when he occupies this room. She moves behind his desk to switch the light off, but stops to run her fingertips across his coat. The texture smooth and the fabric strong, elegant. Like him, she thinks. She is ready to leave. To retire. To retire with him. To move to their cottage. To begin their new (ad)venture.

She turns the corner into her sitting room and notices a stack of presents on her table, the one where she usually takes sherry or tea with Mr. Carson. At first, she wonders if they are for her until her sees a note with her name on it. She recognizes the handwriting instantly as his and his instruction is simple: _Begin with the largest package first and open the smallest last._

She opens the first package peeling back the pretty paper, wonders if he wrapped it himself or had a shop girl or perhaps Mrs. Patmore wrap it. She lifts the lid of the box and she pushes aside the tissue paper to find a soft woolen blanket. She fingers the note that lies atop it; reaches for her reading glasses (the ones that she lets no one else see) so that she can take in every detail of his handwriting. _To keep yourself warm in front of the fire while reading your books, _he has written her. She smiles and brushes her fingers across the gift, pulls it from the box and holds it to her cheek. She thinks of him and how she might like to share a cozy night wrapped snuggly with him, reading (the book that she gifted him earlier in the evening), sipping sherry by the fire at their cottage.

She opens the second box, a little smaller, but wrapped in the same lovely paper. She draws out a pair of slippers. A note is tucked carefully into one of them. _To keep your feet warm on cold winter mornings_. She can almost see the half smile that melts her coming through his words that rest on the page in front of her. She has complained more and more of the coldness of her attic room this winter. It is the truth. The attic is quite cold in winter and stifling in summer. But if she is honest with herself, and she usually is, she has been hinting at something else. Nothing improper but she is ready for the warmth of the cottage. As she looks over the lovely slippers, she sometimes wonders if he listens to her. If he really understands _her_. He has seemed so distracted of late and she thinks that it perhaps has to do with the buying of the cottage – their "business" venture. She sighs.

She sets the slippers aside and takes a third, still smaller box and she opens it to reveal a beautiful light blue scarf with tiny flowers. _To keep you warm on walks to the village shops or to church_, the note reads. She laughs a bit. "Daft man," she says endearingly. She cannot believe the trouble he has gone to ensure her warmth. She takes another yet smaller box and holds it in front of her herself. "Let me see," she says teasingly as if he is in the room with her, "something to keep me warm." She thinks for a moment, a finger pressed to her lips as if in deep thought. She runs a finger under the ribbon, slides it off, and opens the box to find a pair of new leather gloves. _To keep your hands warm when the cold wind blows._

She laughs merrily to herself. He _has_ listened to me, she thinks as she is cleaning up the paper and ribbons from the tabletop and the floor. Practical gifts from a practical man to a practical woman. She moves to fetch the wastepaper basket from near her desk when her eye catches yet another note propped against her desk lamp. She tosses the paper and ribbons into the bin and retrieves the note opening it with more than casual interest.

_Dear Mrs. Hughes,_

_There is one additional gift awaiting you. Please find it under the tree in the Great Hall._

_Happy Christmas,_

_C. Carson_

Elsie makes her way down the servant's corridor and past the Servant's Hall. Most have toddled off to bed. Only a few are left celebrating. Thomas, Daisy, Andy and a few of the maids. She looks in on them and gives her maids a knowing glance. They know not to stay up too late or become too boisterous. She has trained them well. Mrs. Patmore is sitting at her desk, studying the menu for next day. She folds her glasses and closes her books. Elsie says a quiet word of good night as she turns to climb the stairs.

The upstairs is very quiet at night. Peaceful and serene. A far cry from the steady hum that emanates from the downstairs, the engine room of the whole works. As she walks through the green baize door into the library, there is no need for light; she knows every inch of this house as if it were her own. She can see the electric lights of the Christmas tree in the Great Hall. She thinks back to the days of candle lit trees and homemade ornaments. Of fruit, a peppermint stick, and a rag doll for presents. Not the fine gifts Mr. Carson had given her or the fancy toys Miss Sybbie, Miss Marigold, or Master George would open when morning came.

"You came," he says as she approaches standing next to him near the tree.

"You knew that I would. I've never been able to resist a visit with Father Christmas," she smiled. She places a hand on his arm and squeezes, "Thank you for my gifts. They are lovely."

He stares at her for a long moment taking in her smile, the twinkle in her eyes, the soft light of from the tree glowing against her skin. Thoughts of the cottage, them wrapping presents to place under their own tree, sipping sherry by the fire. "I told you that you have one final present," he says low, with a finger pointing to a small box wrapped in red shiny paper hanging by a ribbon from a tree branch.

She hesitates, swallows hard, looks at the little box, and tries to deflect her nerves with humor. "Something else to keep me warm?" she teases.

He smiles as he gently takes the box from the tree and holds it in between them. "Perhaps."

She takes it with careful hands. Trying desperately not to tremble, not to let him see the effect that he has on her, though she suspects he already knows. "Here," he says "let me help," as he takes the gift from her and begins to pull the ribbon loose. She watches his gloved hands, so large but moving so expertly, so experienced in handling small delicate things. The ribbon falls away and then the paper and she immediately recognizes the _type_ of box he is holding. As he reveals the contents of the box, she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, blanches it not with worry this time, but with happiness. He _really_ had been listening to her all along.

"Margaret Elspeth Hughes," he begins using a finger to tilt her chin up, to bring her eyes to his, "It would be my honor if you would accept this ring and become my wife. I promise you the warmth of our cottage, warm walks into the village or to church, and your hand tucked safely in mine. Warm cuddles under the blanket while we read that book you gave me or while we read none at all. I promise keep your feet warm on cold nights and to have your slippers waiting when you need them. I promise to love you, to cherish you, _in every way_, for the rest of my days."

Overwhelmed at the outpouring of love from her man, Elsie presses a gentle kiss to his lips. She laughs a bit. He looks at her questioning. "Your borrowed whiskers, darling," she tells him. She tugs the beard down a smidgen to reveal his lips and their kiss turns from a chaste one into a deep, sensual, searing kiss. Whispers of "Yes, I will. Of course, I will. I love you" and "I'll speak to Mr. Travis as soon as I can" pass between them.

Suddenly they hear giggles and whispering. They don't pull apart, not tonight. Elsie rests her head on Charles chest and the sources of the merriment becomes evident. She can hear the slight rumbling of laughter rolling through him. She looks up to see his eyes twinkling, rights his whiskers, and he pulls her close. Together, they turn to see the trio of children and two ladies hiding on the staircase. Miss Sybbie would never forget the night she caught Mrs. Hughes kissing Father Christmas in front of the Christmas tree.

If you are inclined, I'd love to know what you think. Thanks. Let all the Chelsie Christmas goodness commence.


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